Page 28 of The One Who Risked it All

“Guilty as charged,” I admitted, holding up a jar of pickles as if that explained everything. “Care to join me in my delinquency?”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a tug at the corner of her lips as she slid onto a stool at the kitchen island. “You and your weird pickle obsession. I swear, you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Oh, I’ve changed,” I say, trying to keep the lightness in my tone. “I can reach the top shelf now, for starters.”

Carla snorted, a sound that should be unflattering but somehow wasn’t. “Congratulations. What other incredible feats have you mastered?”

I hesitated, the air between us shifting as I weighed my next words. “I’d like to think I’ve learned a thing or two about mistakes. The hardest part isn’t making them—it’s living with the knowledge that you didn’t have to.”

I clenched my jaw, mentally scolding myself for taking the conversation there. It’d been casual, meaningless midnight chatter. But I just had to go and say something deeper. As though anyone expected deep thoughts from me.

Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, she simply looked at me. The room felt smaller, the dim light casting her face in soft shadows. The sound of her breathing, slow and steady, felt loud in the quiet.

She reached out and snagged a pickle from my plate, her fingers brushing mine in the briefest, electric touch that I tried not to let affect me. Finally, she spoke, her voice gentle but firm. “You can’t undo the past, Eli. But you can learn from it. I think that’s all any of us can do.”

I blinked, taken aback by the simplicity of her words, the calmness in her tone. It was the kind of truth I didn’t want to hear but needed. She wasn’t offering sympathy, just honesty.

I could feel the weight of her gaze still lingering on me, but instead of the usual distance between us, there was something different—something fragile. Maybe even hopeful.

I let out a quiet breath, my fingers tightening around the jar. “Guess I’ve still got a lot to learn then.”

Her lips curved slightly, not quite a smile but something close. “We all do.”

And just like that, the moment passed. She took another bite of the pickle, as if we hadn’t just crossed some unspoken line.

But I felt it, deep in my chest. I’d let her see a little beyond the rake or the clown, and she hadn’t laughed in my face or belittled my experience. She’d understood. And that was even more dangerous than the swath of bare shoulder playing peekaboo behind the tendrils of her hair as I watched her head back to the bedroom. I settled onto the couch, my mind finally calming enough to doze off.

I woke with a start, heart pounding. The darkness outside was still thick, but the first hints of light were starting to creep through the windows. The shriek echoed through the house—sharp, high-pitched, and full of terror. Carla.

My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I shot off the couch, adrenaline flooding my veins as my instincts kicked in. The sound of my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor echoed in the quiet house, every step a blur of urgency. I passed the empty bedroom, a knot tightening in my gut. She wasn’t there.

I skidded to a halt in front of the master bathroom door, my fist already raised, pounding against the wood.

“Carla!” My voice was rough with panic. “Are you okay? What’s happening?”

The scream had quieted. Outside, the world was still half-dark, as though it, too, was holding its breath. The silence of the house was deafening, broken only by the frantic pulse of my heart and the faint, eerie hum of the coming dawn.

My mind raced through a dozen worst-case scenarios. Did someone break in? Was she hurt? The protective surge I felt caught me off guard, but I pushed the realization aside, focusing on the immediate crisis.

“I’m coming in!” I shouted, ready to break down the door if necessary.

Just as I was about to throw my shoulder against it, the door flew open. Carla stood there, dripping wet and clutching a towel around herself. Her eyes were wide, cheeks flushed.

“Eli! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, breathless.

I blinked, confusion replacing my panic. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, droplets of water flying from her dark hair. “No, no. It’s just... in the shower. I may have overreacted a bit. But in my defense, that spider could take down a small child.”

Relief washed over me, quickly followed by embarrassment at my dramatic response to her distress. I tried to steady mybreath. “Do you want me to take a look?” I offered, but part of me prayed she’d already smashed it. I hated spiders.

“Would you? That’d be great,” Carla said, stepping back to let me into the room.

Blast.Okay, I could do this. I was a firefighter, for crying out loud. I walked into burning buildings. I could handle a spider. I briefly considered putting my gear on, and it was just out in my truck. But that would be ridiculous.

I followed her into the bathroom, but everything about the space felt too close. The scent of her shampoo lingered in the steamy air. Carla pulled back the shower curtain, and I froze. Her proximity was overwhelming, every inch of the small space suddenly charged with something neither of us was willing to acknowledge.

Our eyes met, and for a second, the room felt like it shrunk even further. I forgot to breathe. The tension between us was so thick, it practically crackled.

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